


marble

by Little Keplerette (classycloudcuckoolanderclasso)



Series: South Park Drabble Bomb September 2017: Transformations [1]
Category: South Park
Genre: Gen, M/M, South Park Drabble Bomb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-27 14:53:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12083370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/classycloudcuckoolanderclasso/pseuds/Little%20Keplerette
Summary: He has to keep the thing clean, even if Christophe wanted otherwise. It was the only thing keeping him from breaking.





	marble

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Clean - This was a requested prompt that I think can be incorporated into this theme. The most obvious activity that comes to mind is the leaves; they pile up quickly and someone needs to clean the yard. It is also the last chance before winter rushes in to clear the house of its larger messes. Do your muses have something big to worry about? What kind of mess is it- emotional, or physical?

Every day, Gregory Sinclair rises from his bed at exactly 5AM. There is no rhyme, no reason to his rising - he rises at the hour, on the dot, like clockwork, and he questions not the reason for it.

At 5:01, he ponders the universe, and the darkness of the bedroom he resides in, the only source of light being the faint glow of his phone’s screen as his alarm causes it to vibrate, making gentle rumbling sounds on his dresser. This takes only a few minutes.

By 5:10, he is in his slippers, and in the bathroom, washing his face, trying to wake himself up further with the icy cold water, only amplified by the cold morning air wafting through the small window in the bathroom. He does not shiver, does not waver. He only washes his faces, and as he dries it, he pauses to stare at his reflection in the mirror.

_Looking handsome._

He doesn’t miss the faintest beginnings of eyebags below his eyes, but he doesn’t tut at himself for it. He only sighs, and dries his face, before proceeding.

At 5:20, Gregory is in the kitchen, making breakfast. Usually it’s a heavy one, considering his line of work, but today he only eats some toast and eggs - scrambled, exactly the way his son loves them - by himself, drinking coffee, and reading the paper.

The sun begins to rise around 6:00, and by then, Gregory is in the bathroom again, taking a shower. He lets the hot water cascade down his shoulders and down his back, counteracting the cold air, and he watches as the steam wafts out the window. The heat is not painful, but it should be - it’s hot enough. His skin is red, but it doesn’t bother him. He continues to shower.

By 6:30, he is already fully dressed, in a dapper white dress shirt and orange vest with a green tie and black slacks. His hair is already slicked back in his usual fashion, and as he slips his hands into his black gloves, his fingers trace over the scars on his palms.

Scars he obtained from one of many odd jobs he had taken on with Christophe, many years ago.

The mention of his name, even in his mind, and the memories the scars brought along, makes Gregory’s fingers curl into fists, and he inhales sharply, feeling the beginnings of a long-buried pain ringing inside his heart again. He pushes them down with the force of a man unwilling to remember his mistakes, and with a sigh, he returns to adjusting his tie again.

“Dad?”

Gregory glances at the doorway. His son, Gristoph, stares at him, in only a shirt and very loose jogging pants - his sleepwear. “Gristoph? It’s 5:35 on a Saturday, you don’t have school today.”

“Dad, it’s 7:30.”

Gregory startles, and looks at the time.

It’s 7:31.

Had he really been thinking about Christophe for that long?

“What are you doing up at this hour, Dad?” Gristoph raises an eyebrow. “You don’t have work today either.”

“I do,” Gregory corrects softly. “I have to be there at 9 today, Gristoph.”

“No, you don’t,” Gristoph insists, stepping into the room. “Dad, you haven’t had a Saturday job in two years. You only have your Monday to Friday job now.”

Gregory’s heart sinks. His son was too smart for his own good. “Alright. You caught me. I don’t have a job to go to this morning. But I AM going out at 9 today, on the dot.”

“I thought we were going together, Dad,” Gristoph scowls, but there is a sadness in his eyes that Gregory doesn’t miss. He knows that look - he’s seen it on Christophe’s face many a time. “You could’ve woken me up. I wouldn’t have minded waking up earlier.”

“I know,” Gregory sighs. “But this year, I want him all to myself. Is that too much for an old man like me to ask?”

“You are literally forty five and you have nary a gray hair on your head.”

“You know what I mean.”

Gristoph sighs, and turns away. “Whatever, Dad. Say hi to Pops for me, okay? And tell him I’m heading out with Bunny today. ” And in a flash, he’s gone.

* * *

He does say hi to Christophe, for his son, at exactly 9:30AM, the sun high above his head and shining down on the shady little area below the tree where he stands. The area around the tree is the dirtiest place in the whole area - there was a ring of flowers that separated the tree from the grassy terrain, and within that ring, only dirt remained. No grass grew there, save for the little patch directly below the tree.

The little marble headstone doesn’t say anything back, though. As expected.

“He’s so much like you,” Gregory laughs before kneeling down, brushing away the dirt that had accumulated on the headstone. He has to keep the thing clean, even if Christophe wanted otherwise. It was the only thing keeping him from breaking.

“Gristoph told me to tell you he’s heading out with Bunny today,” Gregory informs the headstone flatly before shaking his head. “Tell me something, Chris - when is he  _not_ with Bunny, really?”

Silence.

Gregory patiently waits for a few minutes. And then, a slight breeze ruffles his hair and the leaves above them, as though Christophe is laughing, wherever he is. It makes Gregory smile sadly. “I knew you’d agree. I hope you’re having fun wherever you are, Chris.”

“Oh, and...” Gregory ponders for a bit before leaving a photo of Gristoph and Bunny at senior prom on the headstone. “Gristoph figured you’d want a copy of this, or something. If you can hear me right now, you can ask Dipper to get it for you, okay?”

Silence again.

Gregory examines the headstone again. Pristine, unlike the wishes of the person buried below it. It’s clean, unlike Christophe. Uncharacteristically so.

Despite himself, Gregory takes off a glove, grabs some dirt, and smears it slightly on the gravestone, despite having cleaned it prior. When he looks back at it, it reminds him just a little more of Christophe.

He smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Children mentioned/used in the fanfic:
> 
> \- Gristoph Delorn - Son of Gregory Sinclair and Christophe Delorn  
> \- Bunny McCormick - Daughter of Kenny and Butters McCormick  
> \- Dipper Percival P. Thorn - Son of Pip Pirrup and Damien Thorn


End file.
